New Harmony
by ScarletDevil1503
Summary: Set in 1824. New Harmony is a utopian society in which orphaned siblings Anne and Henry Joseph encounter the town's new doctor—one Carlisle Cullen. When an epidemic strikes, authority is questioned and utopia quickly falls into dystopia. Follow the story from Anne's perspective through hardship, love, and mystery . . . Partially inspired by "Little Red Riding Hood." OC, AU.
1. Preface

Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight; this is a work of fanfiction.

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*~** New Harmony** ~*

**Preface**

"Anne, run!"

My wide eyes darted from one to the other, unsure of whom to fear more. The wolf's teeth barred as a warning growl echoed through the dark forest; the moonlight glinted off its white teeth as it snapped its jaw at the enemy. Its enemy stood but yards away, looking at me with pleading eyes. My heaving chest burned with each labored breath I took—the night was cold and I wasn't used to running so much. My heart rattled against my ribcage and threatened to shake me to my knees.

"No . . ." The word was breathless and barely audible on my lips. I swallowed thickly as the wolf advanced on its enemy as though to attack. I felt myself quickly slipping into panic. "Stop, please, stop . . ."

"Anne!" His voice was stern now, rather than imploring, which caused my chest to pound harder with nerves. Though the wolf drew dangerously close to him, his attention remained on me. "You must go _now_. You know what must be done."

As if opposing the statement, the wolf tossed its head and gave a beseeching snarl. I clutched my basket with shaking fists, reminding myself of the importance of my task. "Yes, I know what to do . . ." I said shakily. "I know what to do, Carlisle."

He nodded sharply. "Then go."

With one last glance in the wolf's direction, I drew my red hood close to my chin and ran.


	2. Chapter One: Henry's Birthday

**Author's Note**: Thanks for clicking past the preface! This is the product of an idea that I wrote down a few years ago. Here are some things you may want to note before beginning:

First, Carlisle may be a bit OOC in the beginning, but remember that this is set when he first came to America to apply his gathered medical knowledge. In other words, his bedside manner is not yet what it should be.

Second, look up the Wikipedia article entitled "New Harmony, Indiana" for more information on this particular utopian society. I've spun a few historical elements into my story (locations, names, events, dates, etc.) but I'm not going for too much accuracy, just entertainment.

And third, this story moves very fast since I want to actually finish it instead of drawing it out like some of my other stories. I have about eleven chapters planned out so far, excluding the preface and epilogue.

Just to be clear—the first chapter is three months _**earlier**_ than the preface. Enjoy.

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**Chapter One: Henry's Birthday**

The toll of the blacksmith's hammer pierced through the fog that lingered about the muddy streets of New Harmony. A chilling breeze wept through town, dampening my flushed skin and clinging to my bare hands; my hair stayed secure under my thick hood. The month was February, the year 1824—the year in which I became a woman at the age of eighteen. My name is Anne Joseph, and this is a brief account of my life.

"Greetings, Anne."

A great rush of spice and oak filled my nose as I entered McCoy's General Store. The warm, dry air was welcome after the harshness of the weather outdoors. The door clamored shut behind me as I removed my hood, letting the red material fall around my shoulders. My layered skirts rustling about my ankles as I stepped towards the service counter. "Greeting, Mister McCoy," I replied quietly.

The gentleman who owned the store, Elias McCoy, was an old friend of my father. He often sold goods to me at low prices, perhaps out of sympathy for my orphanhood. "How are you this morning, lass?" he asked.

I eyed the small, brown parcel on the counter as I approached. It seemed to be a special order of some sort, but I couldn't read all the words printed on the postage stamp. "Well. I trust the same for you?"

"Aye." The Irishman grinned, resting his hands on the counter after pushing away a stack of blank order forms. "Marta keeps me busy and happy."

Marta Cooper, who had recently moved to our community with her parents, had been pinning over the shopkeeper for several months. A marriage between them—a seamstress and a shopkeeper—was the natural choice of the Harmony Society, who either chose or approved all unions in our community. A girl in her twenties wasn't single for long in New Harmony. That particular union had surprised me at the time, however; Mister McCoy had been keen on a different woman for many years—my schoolteacher Miss Sarah. Nevertheless, my elders assured me that Miss Sarah's occupation was incompatible with Mister McCoy's, and that Marta was much more suited for the domestic work required to be his bride.

I scolded myself for letting my mind wander—something which happened often. "That's good to hear," I said warmly, wearing a good-natured smile.

Mister McCoy discretely took the brown package that caught my eye and placed it under the counter. As I suspected, it must have been someone else's order, not intended for my curiosity. "What's brought you, Anne?" he asked in a businesslike manner.

My eyes drifted to the shelves behind the counter, which held a variety of ingredients for kitchen use. One bottle in particular stood out to me. "Just one ingredient—vanilla."

His eyebrows rose at my request. "That's twenty cents a bottle, Anne," he mumbled, brushing his fingers across his bushy, red mustache.

"I've saved up," I boasted, fingering the small, leather coin-purse tucked into my waistband. "Henry wants a proper cake for his birthday."

Henry was my younger brother, left solely in my care five years before when my father passed. We stayed in the residence of Sarah Brown, the town's schoolteacher. My mother had died while giving birth to Henry, which occurred just months before we moved to New Harmony twelve years prior. I don't recall the name of the city we lived in before joining the community, but my father had frequently told me that it was a dangerous place.

I carefully fished two dimes out of my purse as Mister McCoy plucked the small bottle of vanilla from the shelf. As I placed them on the counter, he wrapped the bottle in brown paper. "Just one of those'll do, lass," he said kindly, winking as he handed me the wrapped bottle.

I smiled in genuine appreciation as I took my new treasure, withdrawing one of the dimes as well. "Thank you so very much, Mister McCoy."

"Aye," he said hastily, "off you go."

The dreary morning seemed a bit less dismal than before as I ventured back into the streets. Rather than seeing the fragile tops of pine trees swaying in the harsh breeze against the gray sky, I saw happy women chattering about the newest fabric on their way to the tailor shop. Instead of hearing the everyday sounds of people beginning a new day of work, I heard a chorus of men humming a tune on their way to the lumberyard. Suffice it to say, my walk home was much quicker than my weary trek to the general store.

Being it Saturday, Miss Sarah was in her home rather than in the schoolhouse adjacent to it. The town's school was filled with children of all ages from Monday to Friday, including my brother and I. Smoke rose from the chimney of Miss Sarah's small, wooden cabin, which was given to her by the Society when she moved to New Harmony at its founding twelve years ago. I could remember her being the town teacher when my brother was still a baby, and I just six years of age.

I entered the front door with vanilla in hand, announcing my arrival to the other two residents. Miss Sarah responded from the back of the house, calling me into the kitchen. After placing my warm cloak on the hatstand beside the door, I made my way through the hallway and beyond the small sitting room to the kitchen. Smelling cinnamon almost immediately, I wondered what Miss Sarah could be up to. I was the usual house cook—not her.

"Miss S-Sarah?" I coughed as I entered the kitchen, overcome by the amount of cinnamon lingering in the air. "What a-are you making?" I asked, suddenly struck by the need for a drink of water.

The light supplied by the overcast window offered little illumination for the mess of foodstuff on the kitchen worktable. Sarah's hands, face, and apron were covered with a mixture of flour and cinnamon. The poignant smell originated from the large bowl over which she worked, kneading the sticky ball of dough there. "Spice buns!" she exclaimed with her usual cheer.

I couldn't help but smile at the strange concoction; I'd forgotten her affinity to cook on special occasions. "For Henry?"

"Yes," she breathed, momentarily pausing her labor to catch her breath. "For thirteen years of improper grammar and thickheadedness."

I chuckled at the thought of my rascally brother. "You're too kind, teacher."

"Kind where kindness is due," she huffed, returning to her work. "Please rouse your brother before I put these in the furnace . . . he's missing a special day!"

Surprised that Henry hadn't awoken while I was gone, I placed the vanilla in the food pantry and ascended the stairs to the second floor. It was a single room, which had previously been used as a sewing room before Henry and I moved in. I made sure to stomp the hard soles of my boots especially loud on the wooden steps to wake him. The room held nothing more than two small beds and a clothes dresser.

"Henry," I sang, approaching the bed closest to the room's one, dirty window. "Henry, wake up . . ." Pulling the thick quilt from his face, I brushed the yellow hair away from his eyes, which were closed in fitful slumber. I found it odd that his excitement for his birthday the previous evening hadn't already awaken him. "Henry?"

His chapped lips parted as a soft groan fell from them, his blue eyes rolling open. My brother looked much like my father and I—blond hair, blue eyes, sharp nose. Most of our mother's attributes were not present in our features, though I was told she was very beautiful. My father had not kept photographs of her.

"Henry, are you well?" I asked, resting my fingers on his flushed cheek. I gasped at the temperature of his skin; it nearly scorched my hand. "Henry?"

"Annie," he croaked dryly, "I think I'm sick."

My spirits sank. Henry was usually the first of us to take ill when a sickness came through town, allowing me time to care for him. Just that winter, he'd caught a flu that lasted a full week. But since today was his birthday, a day that we'd both planned for and looked forward to, I felt that the sickness was rather inconvenient. "Are you sure?" I prompted, moving my hand to his forehead. His skin there was so hot that I withdrew my hand in discomfort.

"Yes," he sighed, his young face contorting in a frown. "I'm sorry."

"No, Henry," I said softly, realizing that he'd sensed my disappointment. "I'll fetch some water."

A full ladle of water did little for his hoarse voice. He even refused to eat Miss Sarah's fresh spice rolls, which turned out to be simple lumps of flour, sugar, and cinnamon. His eyes were red and dewy, and his neck was covered in pink patches that were dry to the touch. As morning faded into afternoon with no change in his disposition, I began to worry that he'd caught more than a simple cold.

"He needs medicine, Anne," Miss Sarah said solemnly, patting Henry's shoulder as he drifted back to sleep after shunning a cup of fresh milk from our neighbor's cow. "Quickly," she added.

When I wandered back out into the afternoon, the sun was still covered by a thick layer of clouds which seemed to hang unusually close to the earth. My red hood billowed in the wind, forcing me to pull it close to my chin. Though my flaxen hair hung down my back in a long braid, loose strands of it blew around my face to my great annoyance. My palms moistened with worry as I made my way to the doctor's office—a place that I infrequently visited. My last visit had been two summers ago when Henry broke his leg falling from a horse.

The wooden house which served as New Harmony's doctor's office was on the edge of town, nestled in the large residential area for merchants. A white sign plainly marked the establishment, listing the names of the attendants usually on hand. I was most familiar with Doctor Calbert—an elderly, educated man who had come to the community decades before I was born. His wife had died years prior, but his dedication to the medical field was unwavering.

I pulled the small string hanging beside the door, which led to a tinkling bell within. A middle-aged woman, who I recognized as the usual nurse, answered the call and bid me to enter. As I stepped into the cold room, I found it odd that they hadn't yet lit their furnace for the day. Several patients laid on beds throughout the room; it was dark due to the drawn curtains and minimal gas lamps. The nurse pressed something over my mouth, surprising me, and swiftly led me into a smaller, warmer room.

Gasping for air once the nurse removed the towel from my face, I asked her, "Why did you do that?"

She tucked the towel into her white apron and rubbed my shoulder soothingly. Her eyes had deep circles under them. "Those people have a very bad illness, is why."

"Oh." I gazed about the small room for a moment, taking in my surroundings. It held cabinets full of medical supplies, a large water basin, and a writing desk shoved into the corner. A second nurse stirred the basin full of soapy water and bed linens; she looked just as tired as the first. I didn't recognize the man sitting at the desk, perhaps because his back was turned to me. My heart fell when I realized that Doctor Calbert was nowhere to be seen.

"Madeline, we're no longer receiving patents today," the man at the desk said flatly, continuing to drag his quill across the parchment lying before him.

"She doesn't appear ill, Doctor," Madeline replied, taking a moment to look me over with her tired eyes. "Are you?" she asked me.

"N-No," I said uncomfortably. "But my brother is. He needs medicine right away."

At this, the man at the desk abandoned his writing and stood to address me. His face was unfamiliar to me—a rare anomaly in the small society in which I lived. Everyone in town knew everyone else, or at least knew when newcomers were expected to arrive. The Harmony Society controlled the incoming and outgoing population very carefully. So, on that basis, I was quite shocked to find a new face in the doctor's office that day.

"Where is Doctor Calbert?" I rudely asked, forgetting my manners due to anxiety.

"Not present," the man said, offering a hand. "I am Doctor Cullen."

As I took his hand in greeting, I studied his face a bit more carefully. He appeared even more tired than the nurses, with circles under his eyes nearly black. His skin was almost as pale as Henry's was when he had the flu. I couldn't discern the exact shade of brown his eyes were at a quick glance, which was all I took before withdrawing my hand. "Anne Joseph. Pleased to meet you."

"Yes, Miss Joseph, likewise." As he turned back to his work at the desk, I began to dislike his brisk manner. "I'm afraid that we're taxed to capacity today, but if you would patiently wait 'til tomorrow—"

"My brother Henry is terribly ill," I interrupted. "He can't wait another day."

The doctor glanced back at me with thin patience in his eyes. "The symptoms?" he asked blandly.

"Very high temperature," I said emphatically, "red marks on his skin, dry throat, and no appetite."

"And his tongue?"

"Um . . ." I shook my head, unsure if I'd heard correctly. "Pardon?"

"His tongue," he repeated slowly. "Is it unusually inflamed, red in color?"

His strange question left me wondering why I hadn't thought to check Henry's tongue, though it wasn't natural to do so. "P-Perhaps, I'm not sure."

"Most likely it is," said the doctor, turning toward one of the supply cabinets. He extracted a small vial of coughing syrup and placed it in my hands, careful not to touch my skin. "Your brother is taken with scarlet fever."

My brow furrowed; the name of the illness was foreign to me. I clutched the vial as the doctor turned away once again. "Will this help him recover?" I asked apprehensively.

As the doctor began writing again, he said something that sounded as though it had been recited many times before. "Not entirely. Another shipment of the _proper_ medication, which is a heavy herbal mixture, is due at McCoy's store next Sunday, so please bring your brother here at that time. For the time being, please refrain from moving him, give him water and syrup when needed, and do not share the same room with him. His sickness is highly contagious to other viable hosts. Good day, Miss Joseph."

Moments later, I found myself rushed back through the dark room by the nurse, and left out in the damp afternoon. A line of people had formed at the doctor's door, no doubt with the same purpose as I. Passing through the crowd, I noticed that two of them held small children in their arms. I gawked at the children's exposed arms and legs as I stumbled away—their skin was covered in red lines as though it had cracked from the inside, just below the surface.

As I lifted my skirts and sprinted for home, I couldn't help but wonder if Henry's skin would soon look the same.


	3. Chapter Two: New Harmony's Epidemic

**Author's Note**: Thank you for your interest, Lisa, EvilHusky, DreamingUntilForever11, and Insanity is my second name.**  
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**Chapter Two: New Harmony's Epidemic**

I watched as Miss Sarah dipped the sponge into the bowl of water again. She strained the excess out before returning it to Henry's chest, which was covered in tiny red dots. The rash had spread across every inch of his skin during the week he spent lying in bed, faster than any rash I'd ever seen. I licked my dry lips, realizing I hadn't spoken all morning. "Thank you for helping me, Miss Sarah."

"Of course, Anne," she said gravely, glancing at me with sympathetic eyes. "This is too much for one to bear alone."

Sitting cross-legged on my bed, I shook my head as I recalled the previous week—all that had happened, all that I had learned. "Why do you think they're trying to hide it?" I asked aimlessly.

"Why is the Society trying to hide this epidemic? Well, to keep from scaring folks, I'm sure," Sarah replied casually, moving the damp sponge to Henry's forehead. A light sprinkle of red dots covered his flushed face, appearing like ill-colored freckles. "Just look how the news shook the two of us," she said, no doubt referring to our restless nights of sleep in her bedroom downstairs.

I watched Henry's blemished chest rise and fall with shallow breaths, reflecting on the conversation I overheard at McCoy's store days before. A junior Society representative had just arrived to accept a brown parcel of herbs and place an order for more. Though he and McCoy had tried to be discrete in the exchange, I and several other townsfolk inferred their meaning—there was a serious outbreak of scarlet fever in New Harmony, and soon it would directly or indirectly affect everyone. When an issue that serious arose, the Society usually called a town meeting to raise awareness and discuss it. They hadn't this time, and I'd heard one or two people muttering their disapproval as I left the shop.

"It's still strange," I insisted. "Especially with that new doctor in town."

"What's so strange about it? He's probably here to help with the sickness."

I frowned, seeing that my argument held little substance. People in New Harmony—particularly long-term residents like Miss Sarah—trusted the Harmony Society. It provided for and protected the citizens of the community without fail. In the twelve years that New Harmony had existed, not one act of civil violence or unrest had occurred. We were the pristine example of a successful utopian society, a perfect community.

"I guess you're right," I relented with a sigh. "The Society will take care of it."

"Yes, they will," Sarah confirmed, sopping up with last of the water to cool Henry's skin. "Now, you fetch someone to carry Henry to the doctor while I find something to wrap him with."

I felt a touch of excitement at the request. Six days had passed since Henry took ill—six days of routine schoolwork and chores. I'd nearly gone insane during that time, since there was little Miss Sarah and I could do to alleviate Henry's strange illness. As I eagerly rose from my bed to obey, a thought struck me. "Will you call school together tomorrow, Miss Sarah?" I asked.

She thought for a moment, no doubt recalling the dwindling number of pupils attending school each day. She took her time dabbing at Henry's rash-covered neck. "I don't see why not . . ." she said uncertainly. "Perhaps I'll ask Representative Owen just to be sure."

Robert Owen, Junior was the arbiter between the people of New Harmony and the Society in small matters. He had been a placed in that position by his father, the founder of our community. I knew little about the Owen family, who controlled the Harmony Society; only that they had provided for the community for twelve successful years. I nodded and turned to leave. "Farewell, then."

"Farewell," she sighed, gazing down at Henry's sleeping face. As I descended the stairs, I heard her murmur, "You'd better recover for your sister's sake, young one."

Since it was Sunday, very few people walked the streets out of reverence for the holy day. Usually, on such days, I would remain indoors with Henry to meditate on Scripture. But that was out of the question—the new doctor had told me to bring Henry that exact day, and that's what I was determined to do.

The sky was overcast with clouds, a regular state of weather for the area. Early morning rain lingered in the air after pouring all night; the streets were very muddy and unfit for walking. My dirty boots left prints on the damp wooden planks of the boardwalk as I passed by the general store, the tailor shop, and several other merchant places. Knowing it was disrespectful to attend business on Sunday, I ducked my head as I passed through the church square. However, it was a futile action since I was known in New Harmony for wearing my mother's crimson riding hood.

A large mass of people stood around the doctor's office when I arrived. Men and women alike murmured among themselves about the red sign on the door. "Never heard of it!" an elderly lady snapped. "It must be what Timothy has," a mother moaned to her husband. I pushed through the crowd in order to see it for myself.

—  
QUARANTINE AREA

ILLNESS: SCARLATINA

HIGHLY CONTAGIOUS

DO NOT ENTER

WITHOUT PERMISSION

THANK YOU  
—

"Have you rung the bell?" I asked a group of squabbling women near the entrance.

"Of course!" one of them replied harshly, clutching her hands to her chest in worry. "They won't answer!" The rest of them chimed in with similar complaints.

I took my place at the back of the group, not desiring to become involved with the argument that ensued. I listened to their complaints about the Society, about how selectively the doctor's office had admitted patients throughout the week, and about how no one seemed to notice the sickness until someone in their house took ill. About half an hour passed, during which I simply didn't know what to do with myself. Henry needed treatment no matter what—of that I was certain.

Every voice fell silent when the door opened slightly. A stout woman stepped out, and I recognized her as the nurse, Madeline, from the week before. She cleared her throat and spoke to the crowd in a shrill voice. "The doctors apologize for keeping you," she began. "Since our office is already full of patients, we will now be accepting additional patients at the schoolhouse. Please address Doctor Cullen at that location with your—"

The rest of her announcement was overpowered by the crowd's excitement. Couples dashed away in different directions, probably to retrieve their ill kin and take them to the schoolhouse. Their panic seeped into me easily, causing me to run home faster than I ever had before. All I could think of was how quickly our small schoolhouse would fill up with scarlatina victims, once again leaving no room for Henry.

As I approached the house, I was surprised to find Miss Sarah standing in front of the schoolhouse yard with Representative Owen, using a voice she only used with young, disobedient pupils. "Where will my children come to learn? Where?" she thundered. "And how will you explain this to their parents? Hm?"

"M-Miss Brown, please calm yourself," the Representative stuttered, appearing effectively scolded. "The doctor's office is choked full with patients, and there's no other suitable building to use other than private residences."

"How about the Society Hall, Owen? I'm sure there's rooms to spare in there!" she mocked, referring to the large building exclusive to Society members.

I stepped by the arguing twosome in order to peer into the schoolhouse, whose doors stood open. The building was much like the church, tall and long, but painted dark red rather than white. At first glance I saw that every long, wooden desk had been removed from the large room, replaced by rows upon rows of makeshift mattresses. Several of these were already taken by children covered with red rashes. Three nurses floated about, preparing the room for more patients. That was all I needed to see; I ran toward the house to get Henry, once again disregarding Miss Sarah's irate shouts at Representative Owen.

Not taking the time to remove my cloak, I dashed up the stairs toward the sound of Henry's coughing. I immediately drew a ladle of warm water from the bowl beside his bed and held it to his lips, chanting his name in a soothing voice. He took some water but didn't swallow.

"Henry, can you hear me?" I asked uneasily.

His response was a strangled cough. I leaned away, remembering the doctor's warning about the sickness being contagious. "Annie, I—" he stopped when another coughing fit struck. I instinctively put my hand on his forehead as he tried to speak. "I'm burning up," he rasped, barely audible.

"I know, Henry. The doctor has medicine to help you." I bit my lip when I realized that I should have asked someone to carry Henry next door. I hadn't been able to lift Henry since he was eight years old.

Henry's bloodshot eyes opened to gaze at the ceiling. I watched him for a moment, distracted by his sudden awareness. "Will I die?" he asked flatly.

I stood erect as though he had pushed me away. Never before had I heard such words, such doubt-filled words, from my younger brother. They frightened me. He had been the lively one between us, and I, the responsible one. He had filled every day with excitement when I sought nothing but routine. From bad grades in school to broken bones, there was little that I couldn't help him make right. But, now, I stood by helplessly as a simple fever caused him to question his own future. I searched his expressionless eyes with those thoughts in my head as I decided what must be done.

"No, Henry," I said sternly. "You will not die."

Wrapping the quilt more securely around him, Islid one hand beneath his knees and one around his neck. Lifting him was difficult, but I found the strength somehow. By the time I reached the schoolhouse yard once again, my arms shook with the effort it took to hold him. My knees almost gave way when Representative Owen saw my plight, and rushed forward to take Henry from me. I followed him closely as he carried him into the schoolhouse, still speaking with Miss Sarah over his shoulder.

"Sarah, these are difficult times which require certain sacrifices—"

"It is not _I_ who will sacrifice! It is the _children_." She kept pace with the Representative's swift steps, placing her hand on Henry's forehead.

It wasn't my place to intervene, but I couldn't help but agree with Representative Owen. If the schoolhouse wasn't open to patients, more people than a few children would suffer due to the illness. "'It is the greatest good' . . ." I mumbled, reciting the phrase that my father had said so many times before.

"I beg your pardon, Anne?"

Nearly bumping into Miss Sarah when she came to a sudden halt, I flinched at her unusually stern tone of voice, as well as the cold stare that she fixed upon me. Since I was a fairly good student—and a good house guest—I didn't receive harsh treatment from her very often. I stuttered out a swift reply. "M-My father used to say: 'It is the greatest good to the greatest number of people which is the measure of right and wrong.'"

To my great relief, Miss Sarah's expression softened immediately. She turned patient eyes on Representative Owen, who still held Henry as he waited anxiously for her answer. "It wasn't your father who originally said that, Anne." Her eyes filled with decisiveness. "It was the philosopher Jeremy Bentham." She smiled suddenly, surprising the Representative and I with her abrupt change in mood. "For the greatest good, Representative, you may use my schoolhouse," she finished graciously.

"Excellent! Yes, very well," he said with satisfaction, glancing about the room for assistance with Henry. "Doctor?" he called out.

I made to follow him as he stepped away, but Miss Sarah caught my arm. "Anne, come home now. They will help him more than we can," she said quietly.

A sudden spark of panic burst in my chest as the Representative laid Henry down on one of the beds, waving to a nearby nurse. I grasped her hand and removed it from my arm. "Go on without me. I must be certain . . ."

I weaved my way through the rows of mattresses, feeling more relieved the closer I came to Henry. The Representative nodded to me as he turned to leave, and I knelt down beside Henry as a nurse began to dab at his face with a damp cloth. Resting my hand on his shoulder, I addressed the nurse. "Will he recover?"

Her eyes widened when they found mine, and I suddenly realized that she was several years younger than me. She was a fellow student whose name escaped me. "Annie, your brother has the sickness?" she asked in shock.

I grimaced when I realized that she couldn't recognize Henry in his current condition. "Yes, this is Henry."

"Oh, I do pray he gets better," she groaned, frowning down at him. "I'll take good care of him, Annie, I will. The doctor said that the medicine won't work for everyone, but I pray it helps your Henry . . ." As her eyes brimmed with tears, I felt guilty for not knowing her as well as she seemed to know my brother and me.

"My prayers are with both of you," I said, taking her hand to give it a gentle squeeze. She looked up and smiled as a single tear escaped her eye. I wondered why such a gentle soul had volunteered as a nurse . . . and if I should do the same.

The moment between us was broken when someone joined us at Henry's bedside. I glanced up to see the new doctor's eyes studying Henry's face as he placed his fingers on his neck. "Anabelle, please receive the new patients," he said offhandedly, causing the girl to rise and scamper away with her wet rag.

I gazed after the girl, Anabelle, as she knelt by a new group of sickly children that had arrived. She patted their faces and spoke with their worried parents and siblings, just as she had with Henry and me. In that moment, I felt inspired to volunteer myself for similar service.

"Madeline! This child is ready for the first treatment," the doctor said, recapturing my attention. He had begun stripping Henry of his shirt and trousers, exposing his fiery red skin. When I started to assist him, his movements stopped. "You're his mother?" he asked me.

I leaned back to meet his pointed gaze. He seemed not to remember me from the week prior, though I'd made it quite clear that my bother had taken ill. "His sister," I corrected, slightly irritated by his presumption. "I wish to lend my assistance, if I may."

He spared my offer little thought before shaking his head. "You're too young," he simply said, taking a small, brown envelope from Madeline. "Thank you, nurse."

I nearly gasped in outrage. "Anabelle is-is far younger than I!"

"Anabelle has proved immune to scarlatina, whereas you may quickly end up a patient rather than a nurse. The risk is too great. Madeline, take these away," he said, turning away as he instructed Madeline.

I bit my tongue to keep from retorting. Since I'd tended Henry for the past week without contracting the illness, I was fairly certain that I was immune as well. I was willing to take the risk in order to help Henry and others like him. I debated voicing my thoughts as Madeline waddled over to scoop up Henry's clothes. Standing in defeat, I looked down at Henry as the doctor applied a greenish balm to his chest and neck.

"Doctor Cullen?" I said.

He glanced up from his ministrations.

"Please . . ." I sighed, not quite knowing what to say. "Please save him."

Something stirred behind his eyes when I said this, melting away the atmosphere of impatience about him. "I will use any and all means available," he promised.

I nodded, satisfied, and turned towards the schoolhouse doors. Madeline and several others tended a small, impromptu balefire outdoors; they threw the patient's clothes and other personal belongings into the flames. As I walked the short distance home, considering all that had occurred, a small detail stood out to me in particular:

The doctor's eyes were such a color that they seemed to be made of pure gold.


End file.
